


Four Gates

by TheTimeMachineJellyfish



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of War, Adam Young is a wyvern (shapeshifter), Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Human, Anathema is a tiger (shapeshifter), Aziraphale has feathers in his hair, Aziraphale is a white hawk (shapeshifter), Aziraphale sees the human world for the first time, Birds and Snakes are Hereditary Enemies, Crowley is a serpent (shapeshifter), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Inspired by Hawksong, M/M, Modern Setting, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Snake Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 00:29:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20611925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTimeMachineJellyfish/pseuds/TheTimeMachineJellyfish
Summary: Aziraphale is an avian shapeshifter. Crowley is a serpent. Born on opposite sides of a war, the two form an uneasy alliance in the hopes of ending six thousand years of bloodshed.





	1. The Eastern Gate

**Author's Note:**

> So, this story came about because I wanted to explore Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship developing in the midst of an ongoing war. I also wanted to blend shapeshifter lore (thank you, Amelia Atwater-Rhodes!) with Good Omens, I hope you enjoy it. Thank you for reading!

Crowley had never climbed a tree before. His strategy was _not to fall. _He gripped the trunk and slid vertically, bunching his muscles, clenching and releasing to drag himself along the bark and into the first rung of branches.

He’d found one of the avian princes – the one with white hair, a color he had never seen before – in the garden. If you could call this a garden. It was nothing like his own. The prince was sitting in the tree reading a book. Crowley could taste the scent of him and if he concentrated he could hear his pulse.The words of his father simmered in his mind, reminding him that at 200 beats per minute, it only took one bite to kill an avian.

Crowley hated them all.

The serpent could have struck the avian from below, bitten his heel or the meat of his calf beneath the loose cotton shift he wore. Crowley’s gaze slid from the wrist to the crux of the elbow, the armpit, the neck. Pulse points throbbed like stars, beckoning him closer. He followed the line of the avian’s throat to his jaw and earlobe. There were feathers in his hair. White, woven seamlessly into cropped curls. Crowley had always thought those were a myth. The serpent wrapped himself around the base of the branch nearest the prince. He had never seen an avian so close, one that wasn’t dead or actively trying to kill him anyway. In profile, the serpent could see that his right eye was badly bruised, swelling along the socket. His forearm was bandaged with clean, white gauze. He was very clean. His features were soft and round.

Crowley lifted his head, inching closer, but even now, even without consciously realizing the serpent was nearby, the avian shifted away from him, turning a page in his book.

“Aziraphale!”

A voice pierced the garden, a clean and hard baritone. The avian started suddenly, gaze darting in the direction of the sound and settling – for the first time – on the serpent. He cried out in surprise and Crowley snapped his head back, hood flaring instinctively. He coiled into the groove of the trunk and regretted, for the first time, that he’d come to this place. _Fuck. _His muscles tightened, holding the strike pose, and for a long moment they stared at one another. The avian’s pulse danced in his throat, 245 beats per minute and climbing, eyes wide and showing too much white.

“Aziraphale?”

“Just- just a minute,” the avian – _Aziraphale _\- called back to the voice, his own soft and unsteady. The source of the baritone was growing closer. Crowley could hear it moving from the balcony beyond the white oak he’d climbed into the garden. Aziraphale smoothed his fingers along the binding of his book. Crowley read the title of it, embossed in gold, and committed those words to memory (he told himself he was looking at the avian’s hands, lest he draw out a sword from his robes and cut his head off - but there was no sword). Aziraphale spoke again, softer still, “You’d better hide. Don’t let my brother catch you.”

The furtive urgency in his voice took the serpent by surprise. And while the prince did not appear to be lithe or graceful, he slipped out of the tree with the ease of one who was raised in high places. Crowley watched him disappear from view with his book under his arm, and he listened to the voices retreat. Aziraphale led the baritone – _his brother –_ away, permitting Crowley to make his escape from the garden.

* * *

In retrospect, the serpent would blame his fixation on youthful indiscretion; they were both young, the day they met in the garden and, he supposed, innocent – or as innocent as either of them could be, considering. He would say it was bad luck, the first time he’d really wanted to hurt someone and fate had put him up against Aziraphale, who’d spared his life without even knowing his name.

Five years passed. Beelzebub sent him to the Eastern Gate – less of a physical gate than a threshold in the desert, serving to separate the human world and their own. There were four such gates, and defending them from the continuous threat of human encroachment was about the only thing any of them had ever agreed upon. No battle had ever been fought in this territory.

It took him three days of travel to reach the Gate and when he arrived, it was as miserable as he remembered with one glaring exception: he was not alone. The air was hot and dry, the sun beating down on Crowley’s back as he joined the avian on the wall. He wondered who a prince would have to piss off to earn this dubious honor, repeating those ancient words, layering magic into the wards that had existed since before the war. 

“Hello, Aziraphale.”

The avian blinked at him, lips parting in surprise. “Ah...”

“Crowley,” he supplied helpfully.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale repeated. There were questions in his eyes and the furrow of his brow, but he swallowed the words – more’s the pity, Crowley thought - and looked away.

“I'm surprised you're out here alone.” Avians tended to flock together which was extremely irritating, and made it nearly impossible to break their formations. Alone, they were much more manageable. 

“I can take care of myself.” The shift in tone was smooth as steel and Crowley realized Aziraphale had misunderstood his observation as a threat - and reacted accordingly. Reserve slid over his once expressive face like armor, blue eyes distant and hard, unreadable and alien to the serpent. His posture was as firm, and somehow he had made that soft body unyielding. The transition was unsettling to watch.

“I meant nothing by it,” the serpent conceded, his own posture relaxed and non-threatening, “Neutral territory and all that.”

Aziraphale didn't seem inclined to take Crowley's word for it but the posturing receded. Duty was stronger than instinct and, as Crowley had no intention of leaving just yet, the avian turned his attention to his assigned task. They stood in silence together for a long time- well, _he _stood in silence. Aziraphale repaired the wards without fully turning his back, cautious. Crowley watched him – he made no effort to be subtle. There was nothing else to look at in this damn desert. Light steps, gentle, rounded gestures. Hours passed and as the serpent made no sudden movements and did not attempt to threaten him, the tension gradually eased out of Aziraphale's body.

The work was finished. Humans passed by in cars, rumbling over the patch of black asphalt streaking through mounds of sand less than fifty yards from the Eastern Gate. Well, that was _progress_.

“Nothing brings people together like a common enemy,” he mused.

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale seemed to have given up on pretending to ignore him. A muscle in the corner of Crowley’s mouth twitched as he felt the avian shift next to him, glance at him.

The serpent didn’t repeat himself, but he gestured with a lazy tilt of his head in the direction of the highway, “Humans.” A common enemy.

“Ah.”

Crowley resisted the urge to snap his fingers. “Have you been?”

“Have I been…?”

“Out there,” he drawled, gazing out over the desert, “The human world.”

“Of course not.” The response was so emphatic that the serpent raised his eyebrows, inviting the avian to _go on then_. “It’s forbidden_._”

“Ngh.” Crowley shrugged. “It wouldn’t be forbidden if it wasn’t worth doing.” Personal motto.

Aziraphale frowned. “That is not true.”

“No?”

“No.”

Crowley shifted conspiratorially towards Aziraphale and ignored the avian’s flinch, the way he would not look him in the eye – a practiced defense mechanism, “Don’t you think it’s strange?” he murmured, “Keeping humans out of our world, naturally,” it made sense, “Just look at the mess they’ve made of their own. But there’s no reason why _we _shouldn’t be allowed to cross over every now and then...”

The avian disagreed. “Better not to question it.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Aziraphale seemed flustered, which amused the serpent, “It can’t be _good _to cross over, or else it wouldn’t be a place of exile.”

“Exile?” That was a new one. 

“Well, yes,” the avian glanced at him, then away, “That’s the law. If you are cast out, you must go to the human world. Your wings are clipped.”

It must have been worse than it seemed, by the tone. “So you can’t fly?”

Aziraphale nodded, pursed his lips, “It’s more than that. You can never come back. Physically, it’s not possible.”

“You’re talking about the Keep,” Crowley was familiar with the design both personally and in a general sense – the avian citadel and most of the city was suspended in the air, only accessible by flight, “The ground floor is sealed off and sanded, it’s impossible to climb.” It was an effective countermeasure – it had kept his people from attempting to siege it. 

“Yes.”

So even if an exile did find their way out of the human world, the unlucky sod would be unable to get into the city. “Fucking hell.”

“You don’t have this law?” It was the avian’s first question, tentative.

“We don’t exile,” the serpent explained, “Traitors get a death sentence. The trials are quick. No… disfigurement,” he was not as enthusiastic about torture as his peers, “Not until after death. Wouldn’t want the skin to go to waste.”

“You skin your own people?”

“After they’re dead,” he repeated defensively.

“That is disgusting.”

“It's economical.” And it made a very strong statement – intimidation and bravado were half the battle. The rest of it was blood and violence. “Look at these shoes.” Slick, black snakeskin, custom red soles, comfortable and water-resistant. Couldn’t do much about the sand, unfortunately.

“I’d rather not.”

Ah, but now he couldn’t help but notice them. Crowley smirked. “Jealous?”

The avian did not respond. Silence fell between them and while it was not _comfortable_, it wasn't unpleasant. “How do you know about the Keep?” Aziraphale asked finally.

Crowley realized he had said too much about the ground floor, but he didn’t particularly care to keep it a secret. “I’ve been there,” he replied simply.

“_What?_”

For someone who’d asked such a leading question, the avian sounded very surprised. He supposed it _was _a fairly impressive accomplishment and not one he’d had the occasion to brag about (he had never mentioned it to anyone). “Don’t look so shocked,” he teased, “You were there too, remember?” No? “Five years ago, in the garden,” nothing yet, “It was spring. You were sitting in a white oak tree, reading a book,_ ‘The Owl and the Nightingale’ and __other __selected __stories__. _You told me to hide...”

“From Gabriel,” Aziraphale said faintly.

That must have been the brother in question. “Yeah.”

“That was _you?_”

Crowley was pleased. “In the flesh.”

The avian didn’t say anything for a long moment. He seemed to be processing the fact that the black serpent in the tree and Crowley were one in the same. Then, “What on Earth were you doing there?”

Crowley’s smile faltered. He wasn’t eager to relive the moments leading up to their first meeting, but he had brought this up so… “My mother had just died. Avian bow. She bled out almost immediately,” he said tonelessly, the words running together to prevent any ill-advised attempt to express sympathy, “I came there to kill you- not you, specifically, anyone would’ve done,” someone had to pay for what happened to her, “But you made an easy target.”

"Oh."

“You looked like you’d gotten into a fight: your right eye was swollen and your forearm must’ve gotten cut up,” Crowley’s gaze strayed to the site of the phantom injury, half-obscured by the avian’s sleeve. If there was any scarring, he wasn’t in a position to see it from here.

“I remember.” Aziraphale’s voice was so soft, barely above a whisper.

“Anyway,” Crowley cleared his throat, “I took one look at you and I...” truth be told, he took more than one look but he'd already told Aziraphale more than enough. “It wasn’t your fault. You were like me.” And he had never killed anyone before. He couldn’t start with someone so... “Why did you tell me to hide? You must have known what I was...” No ordinary snake would’ve made it into that garden.

“Well...” the avian hesitated, “I suspected.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Gabriel would have killed you.”

“And?”

“And it didn’t seem right,” he said, with the helpless gesture of someone having a hard time putting it into words, “You looked… frightened.”

“I was not frightened.” 

“Forgive me,” Aziraphale replied, “I’m not an expert on serpentine body language.” Was he being sarcastic? “Still, you hadn’t done anything to me. And I… I thought there had been enough death.”

Crowley nodded as the avian's voice trailed off. “Yeah.” _Me too. _Too bad nobody else got the memo. Five years later and they were no closer to ending the war than they were back then. Still fighting. Still dying. He had blood under his nails more often than not – and he wasn’t as squeamish as he used to be. A somber mood settled over them both. Aziraphale left soon after but Crowley stayed to watch the sun bleed out over the horizon. Exile didn’t seem so bad, he thought to himself gloomily, compared to what he had to go back to. 


	2. The Western Gate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale, Crowley and their respective cohorts arrive at the Western Gate for a diplomatic summit that is anything but peaceful.

Aziraphale was nervous.

The first summit in four hundred years – held at the Western Gate, to serve as an initial mediation session between their respective sides - and Aziraphale had been invited. In fact, the invitation was addressed to him by name. Strange, wasn’t it? Gabriel thought so. His brother assumed it was an oversight and took over the duties of selecting and preparing their delegation for travel.

The invitation permitted no more than four and in the end, it was Gabriel, Sandalphon, Uriel and Aziraphale. He knew his brother would have preferred to bring Michael – this was to be a show of strength to the opposition, after all – but there was no getting around the particulars of the invitation. _Aziraphale _would have preferred Michael to Sandalphon, but he had never liked the falcon. Sandalphon was his brother’s primary adviser and strategist, responsible for implementing increasingly inhumane methods of combat and interrogation. Sandalphon had an utter lack of empathy – for the opposition, for his own soldiers - that Aziraphale found disturbing. And he had seen Sandalphon on the battlefield. 

The purpose of the summit was to start a _conversation_, the possibility of reaching an accord, between the avians and the serpents. Aziraphale could think of no one _worse _than Sandalphon to be present at such an occasion. He was contained violence, even in human form. This gave the distinct impression that Gabriel – and by extension, all of their people – had no intention of brokering a peace. Aziraphale did attempt to voice his objections but Gabriel had simply said that they would be fools to trust serpents to respect panthera law, that Sandalphon and Uriel would accompany them for their own protection.

Their journey was long, made longer still by the decision to go on horseback instead of fly. To occupy himself and to distract from the not inconsiderable pain of travel, he revised what he knew of panthera traditions and cultural practices. The panthera were a matrilinear faction of shapeshifters who guarded the Western Gate. They were neutral observers and purveyors of very accurate prophecies, or so it was said, but rarely inclined to share those prophecies with outsiders. Aziraphale had always thought that was unfortunate but he supposed they had the right to protect their gifts. And to think that in his lifetime they would host a summit was… well, remarkable. Not a bad sign, Creator willing.

Crowley would be there. Aziraphale was sure of it and _that _made him nervous. In the fifteen years since their conversation at the Gate, he had met with the serpent a handful of times. His personal diplomatic endeavors- if he was caught, he would lose his wings. If _Crowley _was caught, he’d be killed. And skinned. Aziraphale grimaced at the thought. Such a disturbing post-mortem practice, no matter what Crowley said. The purpose of their arrangement was to… undermine the war effort without betraying their respective sides. Facilitating miscommunication, fabricating unreliable intelligence, interrupting supply lines. Minor inconveniences, really, but if it kept their respective sides from launching a proper military campaign, the likes of which would kill thousands, that was… something. But _this_ summit was more than Aziraphale could have hoped for and he had prayed over it for days, that this momentous occasion might signal an end to the war.

* * *

Their delegation arrived without incident.   
  
The panthera welcomed them into a beautiful vestibule carved out of stone, escorted them to private rooms where they arranged to stay for the duration of the summit (three days), and prepared a delicious meal. Aziraphale was quite intrigued by the fish and grateful to find the panthera had been cognizant not to serve poultry. They did serve wine but Gabriel forbade him from indulging, and spent the meal deep in conversation with Sandalphon and Uriel, revisiting their strategy for the first meeting.

Aziraphale was not part of the strategy. Gabriel told him – in no uncertain terms – not to speak at all. And for this reason he was last of their delegation to enter the hall. This gave him the opportunity to admire the architecture of the place: the large, rectangular reflecting pool and sunken gardens, clay floor tiles, and stunning tile-work inlaid above the entrance to the reception room, a crowned tiger holding a sacred book in its claws. The reception room had high ceilings and intricate prismatic vaulting, columns inscribed with decorative inscriptions and a marble floor. Seated in the center of the room on woven rush floor cushions were the panthera matriarch and her heir. The two women were beautiful: long black hair and dark eyes, the matriarch dressed in brown and the younger one in black.

To their left were four chairs and to their right… was Crowley. Crowley who was sprawled out on two cushions and a headrest, one ankle crossed over his knee to show the signature red soles of his black shoes. He looked entirely too comfortable considering the situation. He was wearing black. Next to him sat the one known as Beelzebub, pale and cold, dressed in black with a blood-red sash, black hair and blue eyes, round pupils betraying their species as diurnal (Crowley had explained this to him once). To the side stood what the avian assumed were personal guards.

The panthera matriarch, Agnes, welcomed them by name, introducing herself and her heir, Anathema. Introductions were not made among the respective delegations. Gabriel ignored them completely, and only addressed the tigers, exchanging the appropriate pleasantries. What followed was the matriarch’s account of the soothsaying tradition of the panthera, the nature of prophecy and their decision to honor _Crowley’s _request for a summit. Aziraphale was startled by the revelation and if Gabriel was, it didn’t show on his face. He looked at Crowley who was gazing up at the tigers, as nonchalant as ever.

“You’ve taken the first step,” the matriarch said, “Your presence here today speaks to your foresight and your devotion to your people. This is laudable.” She asked each delegation whom she should address – Gabriel, Beelzebub – and asked them what they would be willing to sacrifice to end the war.

“To win this war, everything,” Gabriel said.

_She didn’t say win_, Aziraphale thought to himself, _She said __**end**__.__ Would you give everything to __**end **__it?_

“There’s no prophecy that’ll let you _win _it,” Beelzebub scoffed, making a guttural sound of disgust as if flies were caught in their throat, “You’re on the losing side.”

“_My _side didn’t ask for this meeting-” Gabriel turned on Beelzebub before he remembered the context of this conversation and amended, in his best approximation of simpering (he was no good at that), “But we are most honored to be here.” He smiled at Agnes.

She did not smile back. “There is but one way to win,” she conceded to _his _choice of words, “You must start at the center,” she drew two fingers together. She spoke about unity and drawing two bloodlines together and no one seemed to like where this going, “The child you bring into this world will end the war.”

The outrage was instantaneous, a chorus of shouts on either side – and his brother never raised his voice but Aziraphale could hear his voice climbing over the others, a cold and certain, “That is absurd.” Aziraphale was too stunned to react, and the discussion was cut dramatically short as the panthera matriarch stood, and promptly banished both delegations from the hall for the rest of the night. It was never wise to offend one’s host but that seemed to be the very least of his brother’s concerns. Aziraphale listened to him rail against the insult of it. Allying with serpents was tantamount to treason. Any creature born of such a union would be an abomination, a degradation of avian blood. The war would not be won by defiling themselves with serpents; it would be won by killing them. It was decided that the prophecy had clearly been misinterpreted – if, indeed, it could be trusted at all. This entire affair had been orchestrated by one of _them_, his brother reminded them, an unforgivable lapse in judgment on the part of the panthera. Gabriel wanted to leave the Western Gate. Sandalphon agreed. Aziraphale countered it would be rude to depart without a word to their hosts and, furthermore, the horses needed to rest after such a long journey.

Eventually it was decided that they would wait to depart until the morning, and Gabriel insisted on making a request to meet the panthera matriarch _without _the serpents present. Privately, Aziraphale did not think his brother – as charming as he was – would get a different answer but no one asked for his opinion so he went to his room, prepared a bath, and lay in bed for several hours before sleep took him. He rolled onto his side and closed his eyes, and tried to stifle the uneasy curdling of his stomach.

* * *

Aziraphale dreamed of the Fall.

Of a serpent’s bow piercing his wing and dragging him down to earth. He rolled with a piercing cry but the effort to dislodge the arrow only quickened his spiral towards the ground, his vision white-hot with pain. He twisted to the side and gasped as the image of the battlefield flared before his eyes.

He was standing now in the thick of it. The cloying _smell _of war, the _sound _of it, muted in his memories but no less painful to behold. So many lost, grounded forever. Six thousand years they had been fighting. No one remembered the initial slight, the source of this blood feud. It was no longer a matter of principle, of good and evil. It was wounded pride and familial vengeance, poisoning his people, his brothers and sisters, masquerading as righteousness when he knew in his heart that it wasn’t.

Aziraphale caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, the body that coiled back silently and struck- the avian twisted and brought down his sword to block the blow, forcing the serpent back one, two, three paces. She stumbled over the body of one of the dead and her own weapon faltered, giving Aziraphale an opening. He hesitated. Through the gritty mask of blood and sweat, slitted pupils and the slide of scales beneath her skin- she was a _child_. Couldn’t have been more than sixteen if she was a day. It happened so quickly. He bit back a cry as soon as he saw the blade. She was so focused on the threat in front of her – _him –_ that she did not hear the flare of his brother’s wings, a soundless approach. Gabriel’s sword cut cleanly across her shoulders, cleaving her in two. Her body crumpled to the ground and her head-

The battlefield faded from his vision and with it, the castigating voice of his brother.

Now he was on his back, staring up into two yellow eyes and a face he recognized instantly. _Crowley. _A hand clapped over his mouth and it didn’t smell like blood. It smelled like molasses. “Don’t scream.”

Aziraphale blinked. He had never dreamed of Crowley before. He had dreamed of Falling. He had dreamed of the war. Of everyone he had already lost. Of nameless serpents. But never _this _serpent.

“I’m going to move my hand,” the dream-that-was-Crowley warned him, and it occurred to Aziraphale that his eyes were really quite lovely. He would never hold a serpent’s gaze if he was awake because he knew – as did every avian – how those eyes could catch the unwary, hypnotize them, render them helpless and vulnerable. Aziraphale didn’t feel particularly vulnerable right now. He felt sick. 

Crowley withdrew, straightening to his full height with an unreadable expression on his face. Aziraphale pushed himself up in bed, and the sudden movement lurched in his belly. He could still taste the battlefield on his tongue, in the back of his throat, rotting flesh and blood, and the horror of it made him gag. Without a word he flung off his blankets and staggered past Crowley to the washroom. He managed to heave himself over the sink in time to vomit _into _it and not all over the painted tile floor. Aziraphale threw up everything he had eaten that night, burying his forehead against one clammy arm, throat tight and burning.

His stomach roiled and seized, a sickly warm feeling threatening to surge no matter how hard he gritted his teeth against the sour taste of bile. The urge to vomit receded after an agonizingly long minute of retching, leaving Aziraphale shivering and sore, and at some point his knees gave out so he ended up slumped on the floor with his forehead pressed to the ceramic basin.

“I’ll try not to take this personally.”

Distantly, Aziraphale heard the sound of someone’s voice, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. He felt the press of a hand to his shoulder and blinked his eyes blearily. A cup of water. He took it without a word and once he was quite certain he could keep it down, he tipped his head back to drink. Aziraphale sat back against the washroom wall with the empty cup in hand, and closed his eyes. Someone pressed a damp washrag to his forehead, coaxed him wordlessly to lean forward so that another could be spread against the back of his neck. Several minutes passed in silence. The nausea dissipated leaving behind a profound and boneless fatigue, and Aziraphale suddenly regained his bearings – and the certainty that he was not alone. He straightened abruptly and the wet rag slid off his face, landing with a soft _plop _in his lap. Sitting across from him on the floor was Crowley.

Aziraphale croaked a surprised, “Oh.” _Not a dream, then_.

“Food poisoning?” the serpent guessed. “Or were you just that happy to see me?”

Aziraphale shook his head which proved to be a terrible mistake. His head began to throb, so he stopped. “It was a bad dream.” _I think_.

“Mm.”

The avian rubbed the bridge of his nose with the back of his hand, knuckles pressed to the knot forming between his eyes. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”

Crowley shrugged, rolling his shoulders and stretching out his long legs. Black scales shimmered in the low light. Snakeskin again, Aziraphale hadn’t noticed those before. The trousers seemed to fit so snugly it appeared they had been poured onto him, as if those scales were his own.

“You know me, I can’t resist a locked door,” trespassing did seem to be one of the serpent’s primary pastimes, “If the guards didn’t come bursting in here after all that,” he gestured to the sink, “I doubt we’ll be interrupted.”

Aziraphale glanced up from the serpent’s legs with an assenting hum to find Crowley staring at him. He felt exposed under the weight of those yellow eyes, and he frowned. “What do you want?”

“To talk,” he mused conversationally, “We didn’t get much in the way of prophetic insight tonight. It’ll be more of the same tomorrow.”

“We won’t be here tomorrow,” Aziraphale was vaguely aware of the fact that he shouldn’t be telling Crowley that, but he was also very tired, “I’m sorry your summit went so poorly.”

“Ngk. It went about the way I expected,” the serpent admitted. Aziraphale blinked at him. “I only wanted to get _you _here and I did so, it’s a win.”

“Why?”

“So that you could hear what Agnes had to say. I knew you wouldn’t believe anything _I _said about a miracle child, but this is it.”

Aziraphale tried desperately to push through the fog in his mind. This was _important_. “What about a miracle child?”

“I’m telling you he exists. This prophesied child who can end the war, he exists. I dropped him off myself, ten- no, eleven years ago. Avian mother, serpent father. Very fucking powerful.”

“You dropped him off,” Aziraphale repeated the words.

“In the human world.”

“Wh-?”

“They would’ve killed him. Your people and mine. So I was thinking, you and I should go over there-”

“-to the human world?”

“Yeah. We grab the kid, bring him back and it’ll be a… sword in the stone moment.” Aziraphale looked at him blankly and Crowly growled a dismissive, “Nevermind. He’ll show his wings and his teeth and we’ll put him on a throne and that’s it. War’s over. Big dragon’s in charge.”

Dragon? That didn't sound right. “Wyvern,” Aziraphale corrected distractedly.

“Whatever.”

Aziraphale sighed, pressing the heels of his hands to his browbone, squeezing his eyes shut. “I need a moment,” he murmured. Crowley agreed and he said something about a canter of wine before getting to his feet and leaving the avian alone in the washroom. In truth, he was starting to think that a private conversation with the panthera matriarch would be an excellent idea – even so, he was unconvinced. Crowley had been given an infant wyvern – and prior to this, he had not known that avians and serpents could reproduce, because it was said to be impossible – which he then transported to the human world. Whose child? Why would he have done this? Where did he leave the child? And how could he possibly know _that _child was the same child of the panthera prophecy? Prophecies were nebulous phenomena.

The avian braced one hand against the sink basin and pulled himself up, and he lay the wet washrags on the edge of the bathtub, refilled his cup of water, and returned to the bedroom. Crowley was smoothing his slender fingertips along the edge of a quilt on the bed, a glass of wine in his other hand. Losing interest in the bed, or so it seemed, the serpent’s gaze slid over a maple wood nightstand, three leather-bound books he had brought from home, and his reading glasses. Crowley touched those too. Aziraphale cleared his throat, frowning at the serpent, who caught that disapproving look and withdrew his hand with a twist of his lips. Then he walked away from the bed to the writing desk, pulled out a chair and sank into it. Sitting was too tidy a word for what he was doing, sprawled in the chair, arms draped over the ash wood frame. The avian felt yellow eyes on him as he crossed the room to sit primly on the edge of the bed. He set his cup of water on the nightstand.

“Crowley,” he said finally, “Did you father a child with an avian?”

The serpent snorted a swallow of wine, breaking into a fit of coughing. He leaned back to pound himself in the chest with one hand and gasped, “_What?_”

“It’s perfectly fine if you did-” less fine if he abandoned the child which was highly suspect.

“_No_. I didn’t ‘father a child’,” _you idiot _was the unspoken end to that sentence, and Aziraphale frowned, “I dropped him off. One does not imply the other.”

“Fine,” Crowley sounded offended, as if it was the most unpalatable thing in the world, to have relations with an avian, “You were given a child to take to the human world, for his protection,” this much was correct, apparently, “Eleven years ago. You never told me.”

“I don’t tell you everything.”

“_Crowley_.” Of all the things not to tell someone, that he had fostered a living wyvern and spirited it away to the human world… it was unheard of, a death sentence twice over.

“If I’d known about the prophecy then, I would’ve told you,” it was very convenient to say that now, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure he believed it, “It didn’t seem like something you should get involved in.”

“Why not? If what you say is true, he’s as much one of ours as he is one of yours.”

“It’s true,” Crowley said flatly, “It needed to be taken care of quickly, and after it was done there was no need to get you all worked up about keeping it a secret from _them_.”

“I do not get ‘all worked up’,” Aziraphale protested, and even to him it was a weak defense. Crowley gave him a look and the avian shifted uncomfortably. “I should really like to speak to Agnes,” he murmured.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Of course, if Gabriel decided to leave tomorrow at dawn then such arrangements would be moot, and yet... “Thank you.”

“So, what do you say, angel?”

“I… I don’t know.” It seemed all too easy, didn’t it? That a child could be the answer to a six thousand year old war. Eleven years old was not an adult, no matter how powerful he was. Crowley made a wordless sound of frustration which Aziraphale ignored. “You can’t end a war with a snap of your fingers, Crowley. You heard them tonight. They want to _win_.”

“They keep going at it, nobody wins. We all die.”

“I know.” Aziraphale was not arguing that it wouldn’t be a wonderful thing to _force them to stop_, but he wasn’t sure anyone had that sort of power. And if they did, he couldn’t imagine it would be good power, stripping countless people of their free will (even if their free will led them down a destructive, vengeful path). “It seems wrong to bring a child into that, _any _child,” especially one that would be a target by virtue of what he was, who knew nothing about their world. If he was happy and human, and knew no better, then they ought to let him be.

“It’s not fair,” Crowley agreed, “But since when has any of this shit been fair? _I’m _not the only one who knows about this so I can guarantee you _someone _is going to find him. Might as well be us.”

“I suppose...” Aziraphale hesitated, “But I can’t just _leave_, not without permission...” If he flew off to the human world with no explanation, he shuddered to think what Gabriel would do to him. 

“Then tell them the truth.”

“What?”

“Some version of it, obviously not the part where we are friends.”

“We’re not friends.”

“Right,” Crowley went on, “Tell them _we _think there’s a child and we’ve gone to the human world to find him and turn him snakeside. Make it sound like they’ll lose the war if they don’t find him first, then volunteer to do it for them.”

Aziraphale considered the words. What Crowley said _did _sound convincing… “In light of how poorly this evening has gone, it could go over very well,” or at least, better than if it was out of the blue.

“Taking initiative in the war effort, that’s a real feather in your cap.”

Aziraphale nodded. “That’s true.”

“So?” Crowley looked at him expectantly.

“Yes, alright,” the avian agreed slowly, “I’m not promising to bring the child back here, but I will help you find him,” and perhaps, coupled with insight into those prophecies, this would give him time to find another way. And he had to admit he was curious. He had never seen a wyvern before. 

Crowley smiled and raised his glass, “I’ll drink to that.”


End file.
